Psychology of a Hummingbird
by Lira is a Girl's Name
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Conrad Achenleck had problems before he met Luce Worth. Problems meriting psychiatry and resulting in insecurity, neuroses, and a real need for a friend. Luce is not that person, but he fills a void. Young!conworth, including Lamont.
1. Transfixed

AN: This is the beginning of a project. Over on y!gal, I've signed up to do the 100 Themes. The idea is to write one hundred fics for one hundred different prompts. I have chosen to write them as one continuous story, but with the scenes arranged anachronistically. It's the what-if scenario where a fifteen year old Conrad Achenleck happened to meet a young Luce Worth still ensconced in medical school. There will be an awful lot of sex, since I enjoy writing those sorts of interactions, but also a lot of Conrad's fears and insecurities, and the ways that Luce tends to only make them worse. There will also be a good portion of Lamont, in the role of Conrad's confidant when he can't talk to Luce and can't talk to anyone else, and lover, when Conrad needs someone more sympathetic. I'm happy I'm sharing this scene first, as it's a pretty good peek into the dynamic these three are going to have. This takes place well into the relationship, when both Luce and Lamont have sexual relationships with Conrad, but there will be a number of scenes leading up to this... They're just sprinkled throughout the chapters still to come.

Long fucking author's note aside, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense. This AU is also not entirely mine, as I know people have presented this scenario before me. I just intend to be the one who does it the most in-depth, so brace your fucking selves.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

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.001. - "Love" - .Transfixed.

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Conrad had to nerve himself into swiping the extra key when Luce never offered to give him one to the apartment, had to talk himself into it for a week before he could do it. Luce never said a thing about the key going missing after it happened, and a part of Conrad suspected that Luce had been trying to get him to do it. That Luce wanted to know that Conrad liked spending time in the older male's company so much that he would freely steal just in order to extend that privilege.

It was because of the extra key that Conrad was there, just behind the door to Luce's room, his heart in his throat. He hadn't realized Luce would be home then, had been certain that there was a class Luce should have been in just then. He hadn't knocked because of this, had just let himself inside with his new key. Conrad had already come by Luce's apartment a few times since taking it, times when he knew Luce wouldn't be there. He'd let himself inside and went to Luce's room, curling up in the bed with the pillows and sheets that always smelled of Luce.

Luce discouraged Conrad from anything like cuddling, refused to touch Conrad unless Luce wanted something or Luce was getting something out of it. So Conrad had been coming by during that small window of time, to cuddle with Luce's cooled sheets. With Luce himself spread out on those sheets, Conrad couldn't do that, and with Conrad officially meant not to have a key, he couldn't even announce his presence to Luce. He couldn't back away, either, finding himself transfixed.

Luce's cock was out of his pants, his hand wrapped tight around it. Conrad could remember Luce's sure grip, a pressure on his cock so severe it almost hurt. He could imagine it just then, watching Luce, seeing Luce touch himself in almost the same way he touched Conrad. Except Luce was if anything crueler to himself, the motions of his hand abrupt and tense, forceful, as if Luce was determined to wring the orgasm from himself by any means necessary.

Conrad gave a little whimper, way in the back of his throat. He immediately clamped his hands over his mouth, but Luce didn't pause for a moment in what he was doing. Even then, Conrad could not feel relief. This was dangerous. Luce could be unpredictable and vindictive, as cruel to Conrad as he was just then in his masturbation. As much as Conrad wanted to take the few steps forward into the room, to approach Luce on the bed, touch him, leave his mouth at Luce's disposal, he also wanted to run away. Leave before Luce could make him leave forever.

Conrad's body had been trained by Luce, conditioned to respond to the older man's need. It meant that his cock was hard in his pants with a want to join Luce in what he was doing. Luce had noticed how easily he could get Conrad hard, and teased him mercilessly about being a hormonal teenage slut. Conrad always flushed red in response, colored up every time Luce said something vulgar or lewd, from embarrassment but also impotent anger, that Luce could say these things and Conrad could never say anything back.

Conrad let the hand not by the door press against the front of his pants, still too terrified to touch himself but coming close. Luce was still performing unknowingly, still thrusting his hips up into the tight circle of his fingers. But that was when Conrad heard the lock in the door click, and he thought he could hear the doorknob turning and the door sliding open. His heart jumped again and his hand clenched down against himself, but inside the bedroom Luce gave no indication that he had heard.

Conrad was unable to move away from his vantage point, unable to worry about an intruder in the apartment beyond that they would give his presence away. He could heart footfalls, near-silent, and then hands settled on his shoulders, moving lower to slide beneath Conrad's arms to hold him. The hands on his body settled comfortably, and Conrad could feel Lamont's warm body pressed behind him where they stood in the hall. Lamont leaned over Conrad's shoulder, peering into the room in order to get a glimpse of Luce.

"Is there a reason you're hiding out here?" Lamont asked, murmuring into Conrad's ear. "Did Luce tell you again that you make too many pathetic noises, and for you to convince him that you weren't here?"

Conrad shivered, hands coming up to wrap about Lamont's wrists. Luce hadn't done anything weird, and Conrad still felt that twinge of anger, that Lamont would insinuate these things were bad. The only thing wrong here was that Conrad couldn't go in there, shouldn't be in here, and that Lamont was going to get Luce to notice the both of them so Conrad wouldn't even get to see Luce finish. And then Luce and Lamont would get into yet another fight, and all Conrad would be able to do was watch helplessly when they started beating each other up.

"N-No," Conrad mumbled. "I just... I just c-came here to get something. I didn't think that... That he would be here."

Lamont didn't ask how Conrad had gotten inside; it seemed to be unspoken agreement between the three of them that Conrad now had a key, however he might have gotten it. Instead he shook his head gently, arms shifting to hold Conrad more tightly.

"And you didn't just go in and tell him you were here?" Lamont asked, sounding amused.

"I couldn't!" Conrad hissed, jerking against Lamont. "He's... Busy. I wasn't going to interrupt."

Lamont sighed, his breath ghosting against the back of Conrad's neck before his lips pressed gently to the soft skin there. "So you are trying to convince him that you aren't here, that you were never here."

Conrad sighed too, slumping within Lamont's embrace even as the breath on his neck made him shiver almost imperceptibly. He couldn't deny it because it was true; Conrad wanted a feeling of closeness with Luce and by observing without Luce knowing he was present, he could participate in a way Luce never allowed otherwise.

"You don't want me to let him know I'm here, do you Conrad?" Lamont asked, whispering right in Conrad's ear so he could be even quieter.

"N-No," Conrad sighed, practically holding his breath lest Lamont decide to deliberately ruin things.

"Do you like watching?" Lamont asked, voice low, coaxing. "You wanted to touch yourself when I came in?"

Conrad didn't know what to say, could say nothing. Lamont might love picking fights with Luce, or the other way around, but Lamont always seemed to know when something was bothering Conrad and never ever turned those times into fights. Conrad pressed back into Lamont's embrace even more, taking comfort from the strong arms that would not relent even as Lamont gently teased him. Conrad turned his head back and forth but it wasn't a denial; it was just his inability to tell Lamont that for him, it had been a private moment, being able to watch Luce like that.

"I can help you, Conrad." Lamont murmured. "Do you want me to? You don't have to."

Lamont was so kind, always giving Conrad the option to choose, and always stating what he wanted in plain terms. Not like Luce who liked to play head games, where he would tease Conrad and make him try and guess exactly what it was Luce wanted that time. Conrad could grab Lamont and hold on tight, even then, until the steady body provided him solace simply by contact.

"P-Please," Conrad whispered.

One of Lamont's hands moved downwards to the fly of Conrad's pants, unzipping and reaching inside. In the room just past them, Luce's hips were bucking steadily, in a way Conrad and Lamont both knew meant the man was close. And Lamont seemed to translate this practically, wrapping his fingers around Conrad's hard-on and stroking with swift, efficient movements. Conrad lifted one of his hands and fisted it into his mouth, to muffle any and all noises he might try to expel. Lamont's mouth was still beside Conrad's ear, licking lightly along the shell shape, taking the cartilage between his teeth and yanking gently.

Conrad would be moaning if he could, but as it was he just bit down on his knuckles harder, his hips already pressing him into Lamont's grip when they decided this wasn't going fast enough. Lamont complied, moving more quickly, pressing more kisses to the back of Conrad's neck while watching Luce in the room over Conrad's shoulder.

Conrad knew it was Lamont touching him, could recognize Lamont's broader, more callused touch. But in his head he was imagining it was Luce's hand on his cock, Luce's impossibly long, slender fingers working so deftly. Luce's touch was perfect, always the right amount of pressure, deliberately edging the grip right up against the edge that would be painful. Lamont's technique might not be as perfected, but he touched Conrad the way he spoke to Conrad – with respect and a fondness that couldn't be feigned. A desire to actually make Conrad feel good for his own sake, selflessly.

Despite this, Conrad pretended it was Luce, had to stop watching Luce in the other room for a minute so that he could better pretend it was Luce standing behind him. But still Lamont would whisper things to him, perfectly sweet things about how nice Conrad felt and how Lamont would like to hold him close for longer, about how Conrad's art reflected how much he cared about people, cared about Lamont. How much he cared about Luce.

And Conrad knew, in the back of his mind, that Lamont was indicating that Conrad cared more about Luce. That Conrad would pick Luce first every time, would come to Luce like a moth to flame for the rough touches that Luce bestowed when they were together. Conrad fixed his eyes back on Luce, curling forward like he was trying to protect his center, panting into his hand as he willed Lamont to move his hand faster, tighter. He bit down hard when he came.

In the other room, Luce was just finishing up, and Lamont could detect as much even if Conrad was too lost in orgasmic bliss to protect his voyeur-like status. Lamont wiped his hand off on Conrad's underpants and tucked Conrad back inside, pulling the zipper closed for Conrad. Carefully Lamont turned Conrad around, pulling them both away from Luce's bedroom door. But Conrad held on then, making sure to watch as Luce arced up from the bed and came hard across the sheets. He had to see it, had known he had to see it even if it had meant stuttering through an explanation to Luce later, as he'd thought when he'd first shown up.

Only then did Conrad allow Lamont to pull him from the apartment. They both stood in the hall, Conrad in pleasant shock and Lamont just watching him, with an expression that was open, but also appraising. Like Lamont was taking stock of Conrad's condition.

"It could have been someone else," Lamont said, like it pained him to point it out. "He might not have been alone."

Conrad knew this to be true, too, in a different subjugated part of his brain that could admit that Luce would happily sleep with people that weren't him, and wouldn't even tell him about it. Conrad knew that he still wasn't special enough to Luce, but that idealistic part of himself said that he could change this, if he was only determined enough. He couldn't accept what Lamont would offer, without using the words, every time. For Conrad it would be settling, if he passed up Luce for Lamont.

He couldn't, just couldn't; every time he picked Luce when he was only given the chance.

"I-It's never anyone else, for me," Conrad whispered, looking down. "I had to come."

It was a vague answer, but Lamont clearly understood. He nodded his head sorrowfully, accepting for yet another time that come tomorrow, Conrad would again be within Luce's grasp, rough touches coloring his flesh purple and blue. He then wrapped one arm around Conrad's shoulders, tugging Conrad to bump up against Lamont's side before they both strolled down the hall.


	2. Amateur Artwork

AN: This piece takes place earlier in my timeline than chapter one, but is after Conrad has known Luce for a while and after he has slept with Luce. We're actually basically working backwards; the next piece will be before they've slept together, when things are just getting sexual. I think my overall summary makes this seem like it'll be a lot about Conrad's problems, and it really is. There will be a lot of scenes with just him, or just Lamont, that have the brunt of this. And then there will be the parts where Luce makes things worse - like this. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

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.002. - "Orgasm/Comeshot" - .Amateur Artwork.

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Luce noticed when Conrad did obsessive-compulsive shit like leave the room to wash his hands. Luce's apartment was not so bad that Conrad had to fucking clean himself if he touched too many surfaces, although more likely his issue was letting Conrad sneak off just to scrub himself when Luce should have him neatly trapped within the apartment. Luce countered this by padding after Conrad to the bathroom, pushing open the door, and moving behind Conrad.

Luce's bathroom featured a mirror spanning the entirety of one wall that had been there before he'd gotten the place. Even he wasn't enough of a vain bastard to need a massive fucking fancy mirror in the room where he pissed. The sink was also installed in a very low cabinet construction directly in front of the mirror, as if the designer of the bathroom had intended for it to only be used by children, or perhaps midgets. This meant Conrad was half bent over, and when Luce looked over his shoulder he noticed that Conrad was scrubbing determinedly at the rim of the sink, which was nearly as filthy as the fixtures. This maybe explained why his sink had been looking cleaner and cleaner the past few weeks.

When Luce placed his hands lightly on Conrad's shoulders, the kid jumped slightly, looking up from the sink with a guilty expression on his face. Luce didn't care about the sink. Yeah, he didn't keep Conrad around because he wanted a personal maid, but he really didn't care. Luce's hands traveled down across Conrad's chest, pulling the boy back against him and looking over Conrad's shoulder at the two of them in the mirror. His top two buttons were undone in a concession to comfort, but Luce still looked fairly put together after class. Conrad on the other hand was slightly damp and disheveled looking from wrestling with the sink.

"Were yeh thinkin' if yeh did chores, Ah'd let yeh stick aroun' rent-free?" Luce asked, amused.

"I just don't want to get diseases from your bathroom," Conrad complained, meeting Luce's eyes in the mirror. "I figured I'd just... Work on it a little bit at a time, and you'd come to like a sink that was actually the color it came in."

"Yer rent wouldn' be covered by scrubbin' house," Luce continued, as if disregarding the assertion that his bathroom bred diseases would kill it. His face in the mirror was leering back at Conrad. "Ah've other chores fer yeh, kiddo."

Holding Conrad firm against him, Luce could feel it when Conrad shivered. He knew Conrad's little brain could keep up plenty fine, that he need not detail exactly what services Luce might like him to perform instead. So calmly, perfectly calmly, Luce's hands traveled low enough down to access Conrad's fly and open Conrad's pants. Conrad did not even protest, and in the mirror Luce could see Conrad lick his lips, quickly, a flick of tongue across the lower one. Conrad did not object, because Luce could always just turn around and say Conrad's chores would be typing all of Luce's handwritten notes before exiting the room. If he wanted. Which he did not.

Luce pushed Conrad's pants down just far enough to get a nice view of Conrad's underpants in the mirror. Luce then eased those down as well, fingers carefully keeping out of the way of anything sensitive, refusing to touch Conrad until he decided he would. Luce could see Conrad's eyes darting from what Conrad could see of them in the mirror, to Luce's hands resting briefly against his hips, back up to Luce's eyes in the mirror. Luce looked right back as he shifted his arm to reach around Conrad's middle, wrapping his hand firmly around Conrad's dick without a single hesitation.

Luce's strokes were sure and his grasp was tight, squeezing to the point where Conrad would start to cringe in pain before gasping instead when the line was deftly toed as to what would simply feel breathlessly good. Luce knew that Conrad was such a faggy little artist, and he noticed how Conrad would try and look at him objectively, with his artist's judgment, only to falter and give Luce one of those pathetic mooning-eyed looks he tried so hard not to make. Luce could tell that Conrad just fucking liked looking at him, and yeah it was a great ego-stroke. But Luce also noticed when Conrad did not like looking at himself, slanted his gaze away when too much attention was called to his physical attributes. How it would never cease to color Conrad up, to tell him what a sweet fucking ass he had.

The beauty of the arrangement, therefore, was that Conrad received a fine view of Luce. Usually if Luce was behind him, touching him, not allowing him to decide for himself what he wanted because Luce didn't let him think that far, Conrad couldn't look at him. But at the same time Conrad had to look at himself, had to acknowledge where Luce's gaze was touching in the mirror and see what Luce was doing to him. He had to watch his dick hardening fully in Luce's grasp but also look at the way his eyelids fluttered briefly in pleasure when Luce's hand twisted just so over the head of Conrad's cock.

"Keep yer eyes open," Luce bid him, the softly-spoken words still obviously a command.

The penalty for failure to comply was obvious. Comply, or Luce could remove the stimulation.

Conrad's eyes popped back open, and he craned his neck up to look at Luce directly. Luce looked down, knowing full well that the one thing Conrad wanted just then was a kiss, his lips slightly parted. And Luce leaned down, so that his breath wafted across Conrad's face, across his lips so precious precious close, but bringing himself no further.

"Good boy," Luce told him. "But yer fergettin' ter watch."

It could have been a gasp or a sigh, but since Luce had briefly squeezed Conrad's dick even tighter, he was going to go with gasp. Conrad's gaze flicked back to the mirror, straight to where Luce's hand was just then pumping him faster. This time Conrad's attention was firmly caught, watching the rise and fall of Luce's hand, moving swiftly, motions calculated. Luce could see when Conrad's gaze glazed slightly, his adam's apple bobbing once when he tried to swallow, panting out instead.

In the process Conrad had pressed his ass back against Luce, and every so often his hips would try to stutter forward into Luce's grasp, but Luce would hold him firmly in place. Conrad's hands had tightened against the edge of the sink, knuckles white from how tightly he was holding on. He continued watching, almost stubbornly, as if daring Luce to say he'd done anything other than breathlessly observe the proceedings, yanked closer and closer to orgasm as Luce worked his flesh.

Luce knew when Conrad was going to come, because his eyelids fluttered in spite of Luce's instruction to only watch. Conrad was already partway arched over the sink, and when he came with a shaky gasp, he came across the face of the mirror with hard spurts of white. Luce cradled him gently as he did so, if only to ensure the thorough spattering of the fancy bathroom mirror. Conrad didn't seem to even realize what he'd done at first, eyes still open but not really looking at what he was seeing, trembling lightly where Luce held onto him.

"Aye commend yer artwork," Luce murmured, a self-satisfied taunt.

Conrad looked up at him slowly, blinked once, and swiftly colored to an impressive shade of red. He jerked his head back around to stare at the mirror and released a low, tortured moan.

"Oh Luce that's disgusting," he said, the words coming out like another moan.

"Should Aye take a picture?" Luce asked. "Sumthin' ter be said fer youth, Ah've gotta say."

"You did that on purpose," Conrad accused, still eying the stain on the mirror with horror.

"Aye think Mont has ter see this," Luce decided, far too cheerfully.

"You're just going to leave it there?" Conrad asked, still with that dull horror. Luce noted that his fingers were twitching slightly, as if he itched to be cleaning it off already.

"Think we'll let Mont find it fer himself th' next time he comes by," Luce decided, taking Conrad by the shoulder.

Conrad turned away from the mirror regretfully, trying to look back at it even as he was awkwardly pulling his pants back into place. Luce found himself hoping that Lamont would get lost for a week or so, leave Conrad plenty of time to know that his mark was still on display in the apartment festering more and more by the minute. Mont would appreciate it all the better if it was crusting a little. And Luce would have to make sure Conrad didn't make a bid at cleaning it during the interim.


	3. Muscle Memory

AN: As mentioned, this piece takes place close to the beginning of Conrad's relationship with Luce, before there's been any anal sex. This is, ah, pretty much as nice as my Luce likes to get. And Conrad is clearly expecting him to be worse. I hope anyone reading can read between the lines; did you notice how in the last piece, while Luce is taunting Conrad about having him do chores/menial labor, he's also talking as if it is simply understood that he'd be willing to literally move Conrad in with him? Luce doesn't realize he's doing this. But that is so his subconscious implying that he expects Conrad to stick around for the numerous years that would pass before that would even be possible. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

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.003. - "Finger" - .Muscle Memory.

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Conrad couldn't come over to Luce's apartment any more. He remembered, such a sort while before – was it really just a few weeks? – when their activities had included things as mundane as Conrad's homework. He remembered meeting Lamont and only thinking that Luce's friends were just as suave and enticing as he was. He even remembered when he had first realized that maybe Luce's intentions towards him were not quite as pure and chivalrous as he had allowed himself to believe.

Conrad didn't even remember making it from the door to the couch.

Luce had him pinned to the arm of the couch, allowing him to keep his flimsy t-shirt as one last hurrah for his modesty. He couldn't say how much it meant to him to at least still have his narrow chest covered, even though he could see his sneakers by the door over Luce's shoulder, and knew his pants were on the floor at the other end of the couch. Luce was easing his underwear off of him one-handed, rather like unwrapping a present, except when Conrad met his eyes from behind his glasses the concentration there was something more than he'd seen in any gift recipient in his experience.

Conrad realized with a tight swallow that Luce wanted this perhaps more than he could really comprehend. Luce's long fingers were perfectly sure, peeling away the fabric in his precise manner that left Conrad without a single brush of flesh against his flesh. He remembered this, from those other times, precious few as they were. Precious. Conrad wasn't sure if that was the right word; whenever Luce tried to touch him now his body tried to shiver, before Luce even made contact. It was like an ingrained fear, and Conrad didn't know how he'd contracted it, how it had made an impression over his body's muscle memory. Even as he shivered, he always knew he would try and lean into the touch next.

In the past Luce had touched him, through his pants, reaching inside, in places where they surely shouldn't have. In Luce's car, flashy and fire-engine-strawberry-apple-red, in Conrad's school in those hidden away places where Luce was so certain no one would see, even in the apartment there was always the feel of "shouldn't." But this time Luce's fingers did not immediately wrap around him as soon as the underwear had been completely withdrawn from his body, Conrad as naked and bared as Luce ever managed to get him.

Conrad realized something was up, the look from Luce appraising, judging him. Luce's one slender finger trailed up along the inside of his thigh, so deliberate, pressing to a spot just behind his balls when it reached the end of its trajectory. Luce drew his finger back further, and Conrad almost flinched, realizing then what was up. Oh god. He knew, in the back of his head, that Luce wanted it. Luce would not be satisfied with his amateur handjobs, blowjobs, with pressing their flesh together so hot and tight that it made Conrad gasp simply from the contact. He was expecting Luce to simply try and take it, cajole him a little, press ahead so that Conrad would be carried with him and would not be able to say no. He didn't know if he could resist, not again.

"Luce," he murmured, the name coming out a plea. "Luce, are you-?"

Luce's gaze had dropped to where his finger was tracing, but he looked back up at Conrad then, still considering. Luce had been, at turns, so overwhelmingly kind that it made Conrad's heart hurt, endearing him to the man even as he attempted to resist the persistent charms. And then on the flipside when he was cruel, scathing, condescending, all of it, Conrad could forgive him. Remember the comments about his art, or the rare ones about his appearance that made him blush so hard he felt like a heat lamp radiating, and know that he couldn't swear Luce off for just that. He couldn't give up the encouragement that he could really do something with this, with his art, with himself as a person. Conrad couldn't tell which facet was being turned upon him then.

"Only 's much as yeh kin take, kiddo," Luce assured him, that smooth cadence despite the jarring sound of his accent. Conrad wanted to believe him.

"Just... Not..." Conrad tried, swallowing. He couldn't string together the correct words to ask. "It's going to hurt, right? Don't lie to me."

Conrad was an artist. He saw the little tightening around Luce's eyes that indicated his surprise. Luce wasn't expecting him to just... Just try and do it.

"Wot d'yeh think Aye wan' ter do ter yeh?" Luce asked, tone turning amused.

"You know," Conrad said, pointedly. He waved one hand, trying to scoot up farther against the arm of the couch. "The same thing you wanted last time, Luce, I haven't forgotten okay."

"Got sumthin' fer yeh kiddo," Luce said then, more gruffly than before.

"Luce has that just been sitting between the sofa cushions this entire time?" Conrad asked in disbelief, having no idea where Luce could have produced the small bottle from.

"Doan' worry 'bout that," Luce scoffed. "Jes' hush yer mouth. Yer gunna love this, kiddo, jes' trust me."

Oh god. As much as Conrad used Luce's name as a talisman against him, remembering that he had that personal detail and it wasn't just "mister Worth," Luce used his trust against him at every turn. Luce knew what those words did to him, Conrad was sure of it. He always made the jump, and it was never so bad as he imagined. The problem was, Conrad had quite the vivid imagination, so that wasn't saying much.

As Conrad watched, Luce drizzled a bit of the gel inside the bottle into his waiting palm. He ran one finger through it, and Conrad could see its slick glisten against the man's skin. When the finger relegated itself to between Conrad's legs the feel of the oil, or gel, was cool and almost unwelcome, but it quickly warmed to the temperature of the surface of his skin.

The finger traced back over that pucker of muscle there, Conrad knew full well what Luce was touching. His body tried to flinch away, tried to escape because it knew better than he what invasions were coming. But when the digit actually began to ease inside, the invasion was less than Conrad had expected. He shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable, his body trying to familiarize itself with that still entirely unfamiliar and puzzling sensation of a presence there. Luce pressed in farther and it began to feel distinctly weird and just a bit painful. He swore he could feel the knuckles, the first and then the second entering his body. All the way to the final knuckle. All the way.

Was this it? Was this going to be all the way?

"Luce!" Conrad gasped, when he felt the finger rotate, and then – something there, oh!

"Told yeh Connie," Luce crooned, his finger beginning to slowly work out and back in again, brushing against that spark of his need yet again.

"Okay, okay, I believe you," Conrad yelped then, when he realized Luce was starting to worm his second finger inside.

"Oh no kiddo," Luce said. "We ain't done yet."

Then the invasion burned a little, and then more strongly, Conrad swearing he could feel everything stretch, shift, trying to accommodate what Luce was forcing on him then. He gasped loud, knew he sounded desperate, pained, when he felt the fingers separate, surely widening things inside of him. But then they reached, crooking just so and he could feel it again, that spark of nerves, of pleasure, of sensations he could not deny even if he forced between tight lips the words necessary to get Luce to release him. He couldn't do it, wouldn't do it.

Luce was right. Conrad trusted him, and now he wanted this.

Conrad writhed wantonly beneath the presence that was Luce, two fingers stroking inside of him like Luce's promises, touching things they knew not within parts of Conrad that were most precious to him. Luce figured the angle so that he got that spot on every stroke, so that Conrad saw stars and couldn't even gasp out his name, could only grab the material of the couch and scrabble with fingers like dry twigs for all the use their grasping did him. He knew his cock was painful hard where Luce was neglecting it completely, could feel the light drip of precome against his stomach for those pains.

Conrad didn't have the cognizance to wonder beyond when the next deft touch would come, and when Luce finally chose to fit his third finger into Conrad as well he was not expecting it. He didn't know to tense up, and even though it hurt, oh yes it hurt, even though he could not imagine that his body was supposed to endure that much of a foreign body forcing its way inside of him, he could not reject it. His muscles tried to thrust Luce out but with no use, finally surrendering when Luce edged against that spot over and over until Conrad was nothing more than a twitching bundle of nerves, extending everywhere.

"Luce please," he finally managed, so softly he thought the man would not hear him.

"Please wot, Connie?" Luce asked, so sweetly Conrad knew it was poisoned.

"Please," Conrad insisted, desperate, almost brokenly. "Just do it."

"Do wot, kiddo?" Luce asked then. He twisted his wrist sharply, and Conrad gasped harder. "'M quite content wiv th' view here, if yeh catch m' drift."

Conrad blinked up at him, eyelids fluttering like a dreamer's, trying to grasp what Luce could possibly mean. Conrad knew what Luce wanted from him. He'd known last time, too, and could only imagine that Luce was disappointed in him for failing to satisfy quite completely enough. He couldn't imagine that Luce would tolerate his reticence this time, not without some recrimination. Didn't Luce want to have sex with him?

"Hush Connie," Luce told him.

It dawned on Conrad, so slowly, the first light of understanding creeping over him like the high blush already upon his cheeks, that maybe Luce wasn't doing that. Conrad knew Luce was hard in his pants, but the man hadn't even undone the button. Luce was paying his own body no heed, almost viciously. This was all about Conrad, opening Conrad's body up like some treasure.

Conrad wondered dimly what Luce hoped to find in there.

The answer came hard and fast on the thought, literally, Luce's continued motions inside of him playing on Conrad's body's carefully hidden wants. Conrad came hard across his stomach, and realized far too late that perhaps Luce had left him his t-shirt for a reason of Luce's own. He couldn't focus on that. His orgasm was rolling through him, dulling the edges of his confusion over Luce's behavior. Just let it feel nice.

Conrad would have to shed the shirt later, and he swore Luce had wanted him in one of the man's soft old t-shirts that he never wore for cryptic reasons still indecipherable. Conrad knew Luce was smug about having gotten him off without once touching his cock directly, but Conrad couldn't even think to be mad over that. How was he to be mad when Luce was the one who hadn't gotten off, who had introduced such care to Conrad's body just then? He couldn't, and he suspected he hated Luce for it, suspected he knew then how his muscle memory had been so completely tweaked.


	4. Differing Expectations

AN: This piece jumps forward again to after Conrad has started having anal sex with Luce, but not very far past this point. The prompt was either to knock someone up or inflate them, and since I'm treating this as a serious story I wasn't going to do that. However, a perfectly normal enema will cause very mild inflation of that area, so I will warn that there is detailing of such things. It's matter-of-fact and not sexualized, so I believe anyone should be able to read this. This piece is finally some insight into Conrad's life, with his mother and with his classmates at school, rather than just into his sex life with Luce, and was quite interesting to write. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.004. - "Inflation/M-Preg" - .Transfixed.

.

Conrad sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid, the cool porcelain almost a comfort where the undersides of his legs pressed against it. The house was silent, a state that often befell it when Conrad's mother went out and he was left to his own devices. Conrad's hands were in front of him, a slender plastic tube spanning the gap between the left and right. Slowly Conrad uncoiled and recoiled it, the springy nature of the tubing almost enough to provide a distraction.

Conrad was finally alone; Conrad could finally do this. He'd been feeling sick and nauseous for so many days lately and he hadn't known what to do, but then he'd had this plan and had not been able to act upon it. He'd only thought of it because of those girls from school, the ones in his computer class who sat at the row behind him and were always gossiping about their active sex lives while Conrad was trying to do his classwork. Conrad knew that just a few months before, their talk would have made him blush furiously, all the way to the tips of his ears, so that he could only hunch his shoulders and inch closer to the computer screen, as if the monitor could protect him from their vulgarity.

Conrad still blushed at all of the girls' candid descriptions, but now things were different.

A few months before, if Conrad heard enough choice words from Kayla to deduce that she was again bemoaning the fact that her boyfriend only seemed to like the back door, he might have fumbled out his ipod so quickly he nearly dropped it, shoving the buds of the earphones into his ears to drown out the words. Now he huddled hunched before the screen, but with ears pricked to listen to his peer's tales of anal play, lest she free any gems he might scoop up, still with face burning, to cart back to Luce. Now, when she enthused the use of enemas Conrad took note, because it could never hurt to have the details down.

The enema bag sloshed gently when Conrad shook it, already filled for use and with the length of the tubing still wrapped around one of Conrad's hands. In recollecting the source of this idea, as if that would help his nerves, Conrad had unintentionally dredged up all of the thoughts of Luce. Conrad could remember Luce's fingers pressed deep inside of him, could remember that first time Luce had pressed something else in, something Conrad never would have believed would fit. Conrad could imagine Luce's fingers skating over his skin as he thought about the sex, but at the same time the thoughts gave him shivers they also made him feel dirty, like his face being ground into the muck. Thinking further made him suspect that he was dirty, that letting Luce do these things had changed the precise composition of his insides.

By that point Conrad's stomach was churning and he felt like he was going to throw up. He should have just slid from the toilet seat, propping up the lid and preparing to vomit into its depths. Instead Conrad rose on shaky feet, slowly sliding his boxers down his hips and off the lengths of his legs. He perched on the edge of the bathtub, the enema equipment again resting in his hands. Conrad took a deep breath, steadying himself, beating back the surging panic with everything he could muster.

It was okay. He'd be clean after this, if he could only do it.

The enema bag was still warm in his hands from the water inside it, water Conrad had tested the temperature of exactly. It was another reason he couldn't wait, had to simply start the process before the filtered water in the bag cooled and the process became less relaxing. The girls in his class had told horror stories, about using chilled water and causing horrible cramps, about using cheap root beer and finding out that it burned on the inside. The girls had also said they stretched out on their beds to relax, but Conrad needed the clean sterile environment of his bathroom, needed to slip down into the tub where he could at least attain the lying-down position.

With a little vaseline the enema nozzle slid in easily, and Conrad couldn't help thinking that it was such a smaller thing than a penis, that this could be nowhere near as invasive as sex with Luce that first time. Conrad released the clamp and the water began to flow, and even then it wasn't so bad. It was a more gentle invasion than Luce's cock, really, although the sensation of having that area slowly filled when usually it expelled was almost surreal. Conrad rubbed his stomach in slow counter-clockwise circles, just as they had said, closing his eyes and trying to think of something else.

Even then he couldn't relax. His mother could come home at any time, and he was not in any way prepared to explain what he was doing lying in the bathroom with a coil of tubing curling out from his ass. He remembered in a flash that the packaging had said the connected bag would contain two quarts of water, remembered filling it with his mother's glass measuring cup and counting as each cup of the water descended inside. Now that water was ascending back out into him, moving about his insides and making him clean once again. Two quarts didn't seem like a lot until Conrad started thinking about it in terms of his insides, imagining the liquid advancing like a tide as it flooded into his large intestine. Creeping higher, filling him until he was suffused with pure, clean water, taking away any taint and maybe some of his bad thoughts with it. Maybe he'd be a better person, after this.

Conrad opened his eyes and fiddled with the nozzle, but it still wasn't so uncomfortable as for him to want to stop. He watched his stomach, imagining that it was belling out as the liquid poured in there, a tiny reservoir inside his flesh. The more he thought the more his stomach appeared to distend, to grow round, and Conrad wondered how much of the two quarts was inside of him, how much he could even take before it would start to hurt. The shape of his belly made him think again of his mother, of what she would think, of how she was never happy with him and how her words always put his heart in his throat, knowing he was still a disappointment.

Conrad wondered, absurdly, if things would be easier if he had been a girl. Like the girls in his class. It wouldn't matter so much that a young boy didn't have a father figure to play catch with, or that Conrad would rather sit in his room and draw than go outside and kick a ball around. He'd be able to sit in the next row back with those girls and giggle about Luce, and no one would want to call him a fag or push him into a locker. They might not even care that... That Luce was so much older, that Luce was a college student and an adult and probably loads more mature than Conrad. Those girls were always talking about older guys, and how they'd like to go to college parties and meet boys and drink and get wasted.

Conrad realized that if he was one of those girls, this thing with Luce would probably make him cool.

It would also make him a slut, but a cool slut, and wasn't he kind of a slut already if anyone just even knew? It wasn't like he actually wanted to be a girl, where the expectations were different. He didn't have to think about whether or not to let Luce do him in the front, or if he might get pregnant. He didn't have any options other than what they did already, the places Luce would slide his fingers and his tongue and his knowing, intimate glances. And Conrad thought about some of the girls at school, the stupid ones, the ones who thought getting pregnant was a good way to keep a guy. He'd never have to think about that, not even with derision.

Looking down at the round swell of his belly, Conrad thought that it looked rather like a pregnant girl who was just starting to show, a comparison that both fascinated and repulsed him. His body was already scrawny and pale and surely not anything someone would want to look upon for pleasure, but to add to it that great belled shape of a pregnant stomach... The idea was almost inconceivable. And again, the thought about how a girl could ensnare Luce with a pregnancy, could make sure that Luce at least had to pay her child support and maybe come by once in a while to see his kid, to actually be a father. But even if Conrad was a girl, he couldn't do that. If Luce didn't stick around, if Luce didn't come to see his child... Conrad couldn't ever do that to another child. It hurt too much, not having that parent.

But the part where Luce stayed, where Luce wouldn't leave even though Luce always scoffed that they were not "boyfriends" and that Luce did not belong to Conrad in any way and Conrad should just force those thoughts from his head... That part, that single perfect fact from all of it, that was the temptation. Conrad felt his heart in his throat, felt his chest ache, felt his bowels now swimming with dirty water as if that was part of it too. The part where Luce stayed.

Conrad slowed the water with the nozzle, needing it to slow down, to stop. He clutched at his stomach, feeling again that he was going to throw up and needing to end this whole process, to get to the part afterward where he was clean. His inability to give Luce a baby didn't mean anything; Luce didn't want a stupid screaming baby anyway. The clench in his gut about some older college lady slipping in and showing Luce that Conrad was just an unattractive and uncultured little boy was silly, and it didn't matter that an older college lady would be able to start a family. Conrad hoped that she got breast cancer and had to have her tits scraped off.

Conrad imagined what it would look like, the round pregnant shape of a mother with no breasts, a mangled image combining the bounty of childbirth with loss. He found he wanted to draw it.

Thoughts of crisp pencil lines and cross-hatching relaxed Conrad, allowed him to move himself from the bath to the toilet, where he could remove the nozzle and all of it and just gently massage his stomach until he expelled everything. That part did prove to be soothing and calm, like he'd been right and all the negativity was leaving with the water. Flushed clean, like a new person.

Conrad found himself cleaning and hiding his supplies mechanically, unable to part with this device that had washed through his brains along with his bowels. He went in his room and sketched for a while, messy drawings of the female form morphing through the stages of pregnancy alternated with roughly spat out mutilations, women missing legs and arms and breasts. He tried not to think about Luce's cock while he did it, not to think about washing Luce with soda water and lying on top of him, so Luce's clean cock could press into Conrad's clean body and Conrad could just perch there, serene, while Luce's hips rolled up and up and up until their purity was speckled with harsh white come.


	5. Stowed Security Blankets

AN: This is a short piece only containing Conrad and Lamont. It's sweet, and it's not porn, and as nice as Lamont is being I'll go ahead and reveal that his thoughts are not nearly as considerate. This is Conrad's first unsupervised interaction with Lamont, and Lamont neglects to ever tell Luce it happened (just for the record). It takes place a bit after the third chapter. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.004. - "Shounen-ai/Softcore" - .Stowed Security Blankets.

.

Safe haven.

Conrad hadn't known what to do, at first, standing awkwardly when he realized it was only Lamont and Luce was nowhere in sight. He'd only been around Lamont a few times, and always in Luce's company. Luce's friend was suave, and cool, but it wasn't like Conrad ever spoke with him, not really.

Safe harbor.

Conrad hadn't been able to hold it together, he'd put so much into just getting here by himself, when he was young and couldn't drive and he had to take the bus because Luce wasn't there to drive him and this was supposed to be some sort of a surprise. He knew it was silly, and juvenile, but standing outside the apartment by himself be just wanted to cry, just wanted to curl up into a ball in front of Luce's door and hug himself.

Conrad hadn't expected Lamont to come along.

Conrad hadn't expected the key, either, hadn't expected Lamont to offer to let him inside, to wait with him until Luce got home from that surprise observation he was doing in the hospital that afternoon. The space was different without Luce there, and Conrad remembered Luce joking about how that squashy old armchair was Lamont's chair, and for a moment the room was pure Italian. He knew the dings in the wall were from when Luce and Lamont got into fights, and he knew which stain on the filthy carpet was from when Lamont had spilled the bourbon, Luce had told the story, and which was really blood and it was Lamont's and Luce had stitched him back up himself.

Conrad realized he knew so many details about Lamont, so many little facts that were peppered into the offhand yarns Luce would reel for him. In a way it made him feel closer to the man, but also so far away. How could he just wait here in the space that had been Luce's but also Lamont's since before Conrad had even met them? For years before, back when Conrad was a cringing middle schooler who wouldn't be any interest to either of them?

Lamont dropped down onto the couch, patting the space next to him for Conrad to join him. Conrad tried to forget all the things he'd done with Luce on that couch, just for the moment. He could also forget that Luce had implied he would be here, Luce really had, and it hadn't been so crazy for Conrad to think that he could presume to see him. It wasn't like Luce was some eminence. He was simply the center of Conrad's life, he wouldn't lie to himself about that now, and for one afternoon the center had just dropped out and left him.

Conrad realized he was crying, sitting next to Lamont on the couch, and Lamont's broad fingers were skating against his cheeks and wiping the tears away, one after another. Conrad sniffled and resisted that urge to wipe his nose on his hand, that was disgusting, pushing his glasses back up instead. Lamont reached forward again and plucked them off, one deft movement.

"I like your glasses, Conrad," Lamont told him, that warm low voice that pooled in the pit of his stomach and almost soothed him. "But here, come here."

Somehow, even after Luce, Conrad didn't realize what Lamont was doing. He didn't realize that he'd seen Lamont watching him, steadily, when they were all three in the room. Lamont's eyes would trail after him like steady searchlights, not shying away if Conrad lit on him so that Conrad didn't even realize it was watching. Lamont cupped his cheek with one broad, sure hand, tilted his face just so and looked into it with those earnest eyes.

Conrad didn't realize what Lamont was doing, but he wasn't surprised when Lamont kissed him. Lamont's mouth was a different shape than Luce's, Conrad realized first, so sheltered in that Luce was the only person before who had ever pressed his lips to Conrad's own. Or if not a different shape, moved differently, more ponderously and without Luce's insistent need to dominate and invade. Lamont led him forward, waiting to see if Conrad would kiss back before even doing anything. Conrad kissed back.

Lamont's tongue only brushed his. When it slipped into his mouth Conrad didn't realize anything was even different, like they were merging together slowly and he hadn't noticed. It was so easy. The warmth of Lamont was his warmth and Conrad found himself pressing closer, cuddling up against Lamont's chest and holding on. Lamont's arms were around his waist. And that was all. No fingers under the hem of his shirt, no insistent tugs and no harsh movements.

Safe. Just safe.

Conrad ended up right in Lamont's lap, knees to either side of the man so that they were pressed together tight. Lamont hadn't put him there. Conrad had climbed into that space about Lamont of his own will, fitting their bodies together snugly in search of nothing more than comfort. If he clutched Lamont tighter, Lamont clutched back, the arms still surrounding him as if to protect him from the world. When Conrad came up for air, Lamont waited, and Conrad chose when to dive back in again.

Safe waters.

It was all Conrad did that afternoon. Just kiss Lamont until his lips were bruised from usage if not force, his mind stimulated by nothing more than the pinwheels of his thoughts. Luce never came home while he was there. And by the end he was pure calm, the wounds to his mind, to his emotions, sealed over with balm. Lamont was no longer Luce's cool friend with the Italian looks and the attitude of a bruiser with a heart of gold.

He was a person who was genuinely safe, who would preserve the restive spaces in Conrad's mind that his heart could no longer care for.


	6. As the Showpiece

AN: This is officially the dirtiest, smuttiest piece of this story thus far, and I actually have the next two pieces after it already written. This takes place after Conrad has started having actual anal sex with Luce, but before he's done very much with Lamont. It's also early enough in his relationship with Luce that he's still quite insecure about what he's taking part in. I had fun writing this mostly because while it's filthy sex, it's also a pretty good demonstration of how Luce's dynamic with Lamont is when it comes to Conrad. Luce doesn't share well. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.006. - "Hardcore" - .As the Showpiece.

.

The bed was the concession to Conrad's comfort. A concession that was lost by the prospect of things to come, Conrad sitting on sheets that were far neater than anything in Luce's apartment had a right to be. The kind thought was further obscured by these freshly-laundered bedclothes, sterilized so they no longer bore the scent of Luce, so that their rustling against his skin no longer reminded him of Luce's touch. It was hard to sit there, naked, knowing that both Luce and Lamont were in the room with him and that both men would be looking at him, scrutinizing everything.

Lamont was sitting by the head of the bed, in his boxers, folding and unfolding a short coil of rope. Conrad suspected he wasn't supposed to have inferred this, but the way he could feel Lamont's gaze tracing over him while Lamont's hands remained withdrawn could not have been entirely by choice. He was not an idiot, no matter how many times Luce patronized him, and he knew that Lamont liked him. Perhaps in a truer sense than Luce did himself. It was Luce's presence that kept Lamont passively waiting, otherwise Conrad thought Lamont might invite him near, as he had that day alone, weeks ago.

Luce was at the foot of the bed, and while Conrad could see Lamont with his rope out of the corner of his eyes, it was Luce his gaze was caught by. All Luce was doing was getting out of his clothes, but oh he knew that Conrad was watching. He knew that eyes were upon him and so he stripped the buttons from his shirt slowly, laying open the fabric so that Conrad received peeks at his chest, just one glimpse of skin at a time. Finally Luce shrugged the garment off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor, unconcerned. The pants came next, the fly laid open with a sure hand and the article guided from Luce's hips, until they dropped about his ankles just as surely as the shirt had fallen, and Luce stepped out of them.

Conrad also suspected that Luce liked underwear that kept his cock close for a reason, so that when he bared the front of his undergarments to Conrad, Conrad could see the exact outline. He would never admit how many times he had sketched the image of Luce's hard cock clutched tight by that thin material, purely from memory. Luce was hard then, and when he jerked out of the briefs it was like an afterthought. Those he tossed aside more forcefully, moving up to Conrad on the bed with that cocky, irresistible confidence. Conrad hadn't realized he'd been momentarily stunned by it, by the shift of Luce's body, until the man's mouth was on his, pressing hard.

Conrad could feel Lamont's hands from behind him, fingers just brushing against his sides before settling for the moment against Conrad's hips. Even as Luce kissed him the man reached for Conrad's cock, the gesture nothing if not possessive. When he stroked once it was not for Conrad's pleasure, but because Conrad was his and he wanted Conrad to know it, wanted Lamont to know it as well. It was like telling Lamont that he could touch this, certainly, could finally dip into that well Luce had guarded jealously for himself, but that Luce didn't share. This was all Lamont would ever get.

Luce broke away, shifting higher, and Lamont's hands on Conrad guided him down. Conrad found himself on level with Luce's erection, spared a thought for the fact that neither Luce nor Lamont had plainly told him what this was. He'd pout at the thought, hating when they talked over his head. He was not so much a child that Luce couldn't just tell him Luce wanted a threesome. He wondered if it meant he was just not worth convincing, that Luce would not even tell him he'd love it and that he should trust him. He wondered if it meant Luce already knew that he couldn't say no.

Maybe neither of them was talking to Conrad, not reassurance nor dirty words, and maybe it was a little too easy for Conrad to accept the implied command. His mouth slid over the head of Luce's cock, lips stretched just wide enough to admit. The motion was too familiar, Conrad's head bobbing down as far as he could bear before drawing back, his bottom row of teeth scraping along the length of Luce's erection as he did. He didn't even need to hear the low gasp from Luce. He could feel it even without the sound. Good. He liked it too much, knowing he could affect the man above him in any way, even this.

Conrad's tongue swirled around the head and he bit, sharply, knowing the gasp was coming then and that Luce would try and jerk his hips forward into Conrad's mouth. Luce didn't even choke him any more, because Conrad knew it was coming. Lamont's hands on his back were only a distraction, the gentle trace of the man's fingers too kind for Conrad's concern. Conrad eased off every time Luce's cock tried to press the back of his mouth, his throat, because he still couldn't do that. He still couldn't relax enough, not with Luce's half-lidded eyes looking down at him and the pressure firmly on. He couldn't bear to be a disappointment.

When Lamont's hands caught under Conrad's arms he was forced to pay attention, almost breaking stride from the persistent attentions he was paying to Luce's cock. But it was Lamont, who was always kind to him, always the steady reassurance, and when Lamont drew Conrad's arms back Conrad let him. Conrad managed to continue the bob of his head, the suction, the scrape of teeth to a pressure he knew Luce liked so well. And then he felt something that was not Lamont's hands, the whisper of the silk rope as Lamont bound it about his wrists with sure motions. Conrad made a strained sound around his mouthful but Luce's hand moved to the back of his head and Conrad knew that he couldn't ease off long enough to ask what this was.

Lamont's movements continued, and Conrad realized, for all that he was trying to just focus on Luce and not worry, not panic, he realized that Lamont was binding his arms to his body. He imagined, from what attention he paid, that the knotwork would be lovely, artistic, and he wondered that Lamont would have skill with that sort of thing. He could feel Luce's fingers on his face, though, calling his attention back to the man whose cock he was sucking. He just bet Luce wasn't liking that Conrad's attention could wander while he was doing this, even if it was wandering to the matter of him being bound like a showpiece.

That part made Conrad nervous.

Conrad was not actually fond of being restrained, and was straining to remember if Luce should know this. Luce had to know this. Luce knew all of Conrad's insecurities, it felt like, so that sometimes Luce's words sounded like they were coming from the inside of Conrad's head. But Luce's dick was more sure silencer than any gag. A gag Conrad might have tried to spit free, might have tried to get out of, might have refused to permit in the first place. But Luce's cock fit in his mouth so that he would not reject it, so that Conrad swore he could recognize the flavor of Luce's skin against his tongue every time.

Lamont's hands were on Conrad's ass, then nudging his legs apart wider. It was not a position Luce favored often, but Conrad knew what was happening, oh he knew. He knew before there was even a slick finger at his entrance, before Lamont was pressing that digit inside. All of a sudden Lamont was not that trustworthy man Conrad knew, or the man behind Conrad touching him was not Lamont. Oh, Conrad knew Lamont liked him, or he fancied he did. He knew the attention from the Italian was something he would not relinquish, something which made him feel whole again when he was down on himself and just needed that wordless reassurance, that one calm touch. But Conrad had never actually entertained that Lamont would want to fuck him, not like Luce did.

Conrad just couldn't.

He thought that he'd like this, could hear Luce's voice in his head assuring him that it would be great. Luce and Lamont were the two people he trusted most in his life, trusted more than family because he knew his had never come through for him. But he didn't want Lamont to do it. Didn't want the finger calmly prepping him, reaching inside where before only Luce had ever touched. Conrad tried to do it himself, sometimes, but frequently left himself feeling bereft and only thinking of Luce. He couldn't even pull away, finding that Lamont's sure knotwork had placed ropes in places he'd never expected could restrict his movement so completely.

Conrad suspected that Luce had planned that part, never mind that they were Lamont's knots, it was always Luce that devised these traps for him.

In the middle of his panic, trying to squirm away from the fingers and the knots and the person he trusted so far but just /couldn't,/ Conrad finally jerked his gaze up at Luce. It almost hadn't occurred to him to try and ask Luce to make this better. If he were to speak, he'd address Lamont, stutter some apology and jerk away from those hands, just then he couldn't stop thinking about those hands. It was far harder to ask Luce, to try and convey that he /couldn't do this,/ he just couldn't do this right then, please, why had he even thought this was a good idea?

Luce looked down at him, hand on his face, somehow both a threat that Conrad was not to stop while also being a reassurance. And then Lamont's hand slid free of him.

"Doan' worry Connie," Luce crooned, in a way that made his hot lust almost soothing. "Yeh should know Aye doan' share nearly tha' well."

For a moment Conrad only continued to look at him, and then his eyes spasmed wide, only taking that second to divine what Luce meant.

Luce jerked his hips back and only groaned at the scrape of Conrad's teeth, the two older men rotating around him in perfectly orchestrated arcs. The presence of Lamont's unfamiliar cock in his face after being slipped out of the man's boxers was so much less daunting with Luce's long-fingered hands gripping his hips with their usual bruising force. He didn't mind allowing his mouth to slip back open and slide around Lamont, because Luce was the one pressing him forward, urging it. He had to remember for a second that this wasn't Luce, he probably shouldn't bite, it was Lamont and this was different. But then Luce shoved into him, and he almost bit down anyway.

Conrad's world narrowed. Mostly it was Luce's presence. He was used to the feel of Luce's cock, no longer quite an invasion, Luce bending him forward into Lamont so that the angle could be altered just so. Luce always managed to hit that spot inside, reading Conrad's body the way Conrad's paranoid delusions sometimes suggested he read Conrad's mind. Luce's long fingers moved from Conrad's hip to his cock, grasping tight. His strokes were swift, sure, almost brutal and almost perfectly in time with Luce's thrusts. Luce always got the timing right by the end. If Conrad could have spared the thought he might have worried about Lamont, about the fact that his mouth was more relaxed than when it was Luce he was sucking save for when he would take a shock from Luce's actions and clamp down harder, cheeks hollowing.

Conrad rocked forward with each of Luce's thrusts, his actions with his mouth becoming as rhythmic and concerted as those of Luce's hand around him. He could hear Lamont groaning, a far different sound than the more abortive noises Luce made, his mouth right by Conrad's ear so that Conrad focused on those moans, the tight need from Luce reading clearly to his ears. He could feel himself trying to rock back into Luce, unable to stop his body from trying to take it deeper even as he'd want to arch forward into Luce's hand every time the man tugged.

"Doan' yeh wish yeh could see yerself, Connie?" Luce muttered, low and almost vicious in his ear. "Yeh'd know Ah'm not lettin' yeh outta th' palm uv my hand."

With Luce's palm braced against his cock, stroking quickly, it was easy for Conrad to accept the literal meaning, to pray that Luce wouldn't, at least not before he came. But the other implication made his heart flutter, that he really could stay here, with the both of them, and that Luce quite literally wouldn't let him leave. Conrad rolled his eyes up to Lamont then, able to see the man's face etched with a pleasure Conrad had never before known. Lamont was always suave and calm in Conrad's company, offering quiet comments when Luce was being too loud or too pushy and yet able to level cutting remarks just as sharp as Luce did. It was almost mystifying to see the man undone, to see the tightening of the muscles as Lamont almost grimaced, as his eyes squinched momentarily shut.

Conrad knew that Lamont was going to come in his mouth, and he knew just as firmly that Luce wasn't going to let Conrad yank back, might even have told Lamont to make sure to ensure Conrad did not release his cock too soon. He swallowed convulsively, still watching Lamont, focusing on the face that he knew so well instead of the taste or the sensation of hot fluid hitting the back of his throat. He imagined Luce was enjoying watching, from just behind him, enjoying knowing that Conrad would do this for someone other than him, but clearly only because Luce had bid it happen.

"Come fer me, Connie."

Conrad didn't know why it worked. He suspected sometimes that Luce could just tell when he was that precious close, on the edge, overwhelmed by the myriad sensations all over again and prone to accepting the suggestion. But other times he remembered things his therapists had said, about people giving themselves keywords, programming them, for help in coping with things. Words that could relax them, moderate their breathing, affect their physical responses through repetition and careful training of their reactions. He wondered if maybe Luce had done this to him without his knowledge, so that only the words in Luce's low, rough voice would cause Conrad to see white, light spangling his vision, pulsing over Luce's hand as the coveted pleasure of his orgasm overwhelmed.

While he was coming, Conrad's mouth slackened and Lamont slipped back, tucking himself into his boxers in a sort of automatic reaction. But Luce wasn't done, Luce was never done until he was satisfied, until he had drained Conrad completely for his explicit pleasure. Conrad was used to this being driven further, to stimulation that bordered on painful because he was just that oversensitive right then. But this time, unlike any other, he was able to watch Lamont as Luce drove into him quicker, watch Lamont observing this interaction between their bodies. Lamont had a sort of sated look on his face, yes, but Conrad could tell even then that there was also a calculated slant to his gaze, Lamont watching the way Luce held onto Conrad as his hips moved, one arm wrapped around Conrad's front and braced against his chest, keeping Conrad as close as possible while still moving.

Conrad didn't know what Lamont was judging. He didn't want to know. He didn't care what Lamont thought he looked like just then – for once in his life he really didn't care about a judgment on his appearance – because Luce's hands were sure and while he almost hurt it was still overwhelmingly /good./ And he knew exactly when Luce came, he always did, from the sensations yes but the superstitious part of him always felt as if it was overwhelming him as much as it overwhelmed Luce, even when he was already done.

"Tha's my pup," Luce murmured, at the end of his last moan, so that Conrad suspected Lamont didn't hear.

He felt warm inside, in his gut where it seemed like the heat was pooling, and even when Luce pulled back from him Luce didn't even let him go. Conrad could feel all of the ropes beginning to chafe, no matter how soft the silk, and all of a sudden he really needed to get out of the restraints. He'd been able to forget them for a while, held in thrall by what he was participating in. But now his skin was crawling at the thought that he was caught, really caught, if Luce didn't deign to let him free.

Lamont moved to start untying his work, but Luce waved him off with a lazy hand. Instead Lamont sat back on the bed, bracing himself on his arms, and watched with equally lazy eyes as Luce's fingers turned to the things he had wrought. Conrad could feel the man's fingertips brushing against his flesh, still flushed and vaguely tender-feeling, the knots coming undone as Luce's precision worked over them. It wasn't so many actual ties, he realized as the thing was undone. Lamont really had been efficient with the bindings.

When Luce was done, Conrad sank back against him, fully expecting the man to maybe lay him down on the mattress, anything save for allowing him to stay there. But instead Luce's fingers caught him tight and he could still feel the man's body heat, feel their bodies sliding slightly against each other where Conrad was sweaty from the exertion. Conrad looked up at Luce, confused, and swore he saw the exact same calculating look that had been in Lamont's eyes. He didn't know what it meant.

"Cuddle with Mont, kiddo," Luce said after a few more moments, scrounging up his usual distaste for Conrad initiating such things. "'E's th' big fuckin' teddy bear."

After that Luce pulled away from him, moving to put his legs over the edge of the bed. Conrad wanted to protest, felt like he was losing something just then, but was sore in places he hadn't realized and didn't have the energy to complain. And then Lamont was behind him, the steady hands far more welcome then. Conrad sagged against Lamont's chest instead, his head mimicking Luce's voice telling him that he would love it, and his heart echoing dully that he'd like it better if he knew why Luce needed these things to happen.


	7. Spirits Slowly Rising

AN: This piece, I have to warn, may be triggering for some people. It references the sexual abuse of a child, although I would say the details are not graphic. The child isn't Conrad, and it isn't Worth. This story, for the most part, isn't supernatural for all that the source material deals with such things. This piece in particular includes a ghost character, and is sort of my nod to the fact that the comic is a fantasy. When I posted this to ygal, I used non-gender-specific pronouns to refer to the ghost, but this is the non-censored version which uses female pronouns. I wasn't sure if this would be too much female for ygal. Anyway, those are all the weird bits. Hanna is Not a Boy's Name is still the property of the marvelous Tessa Stone; I am making no money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.007. - "Fantasy" - .Spirits Slowly Rising.

.

The sun had been setting when they left and it was almost full dark when Luce pulled into the parking lot. Conrad had told him several times that didn't he remember Conrad had to get home before too late? The old church was spooky in the dark, just this black, looming shape against the purpling sky and Conrad didn't know if it even still had a congregation. Luce didn't either, when he asked, only shooed him from the car and into walking.

"Luce, I don't like this, why are we even-" Conrad began, trying yet again to make the blonde see sense.

"Hush Connie," Luce cut him off, and for once the hand Luce had placed on his back was not a reassurance.

Conrad hushed, but he didn't like it. Luce led him down a gravel path behind the church, and that was when Conrad really saw the graveyard. It had a low wooden fence, so old that some of the slats were rotten, and some had rotted clean away. Luce stepped right over it, and Conrad had no choice but to scramble over behind him. After that they were right among the tombstones, and Conrad had the feeling that in the daytime, it would be a place he'd love to sketch, lots of loving drawings that contained the shapes of the stones and the play of the light. At present, it was eerie and Conrad's skin was starting to crawl.

Conrad had already concluded that this was another one of Luce's little psychological tests of him. He just didn't know what he was supposed to be proving. His eyes were darting around the cemetery, taking in the headstones and the way they only seemed to loom larger as the light faded almost completely. Luce's hand on his back slid up to his shoulder, fingers curling around and pulling Conrad close against Luce's side. Conrad wanted to believe that this was for his benefit, Luce trying to soothe his anxiety over whatever it was they were doing. But his eyes were adjusting to the dark, and when he looked up he could see Luce's characteristic smirk still resting upon his lips.

"Yeh scared kiddo?" Luce asked, voice pitched low in the silence.

"N-No," Conrad tried, stumbling.

"Aye think yer lyin' ter me," Luce told him.

Mystifyingly, Luce almost sounded... Pleased by Conrad's dishonesty.

"Yeh wan' me ter distract yeh, Connie?" Luce asked.

Oh. /Oh./ Was this one of Luce's other weird... Fetishes or kinks or whatever it was, Conrad had thought he couldn't be surprised any more by the older man. He thought he was finally comfortable, having come to enjoy Luce's happy whims. Oh yes, his body liked those things too well. But that was what else Luce wanted. To tilt him off-balance, no matter how hard he tried to keep up.

Conrad slanted his gaze to the side, sure Luce could see that he was not meeting the man's eyes. He didn't want to admit that yes, /yes/ he wanted to be distracted, please, he could still imagine the tombstones crowding closer around him, like demons in the dark. Conrad had never had a problem with graveyards before, but that was likely because he'd never been in one before. Now that he was experiencing the location first-hand, his overactive imagination was painting a creepy medley of terrors onto the situation.

Conrad could imagine the ground opening up beneath him, swallowing him even as Luce watched. He could imagine the taste of the dirt, crumbling but rich with the flavor of rotting flesh, from all of the corpses that had decomposed to become part of it. He could even imagine the suffocation, the air becoming tight and close and the grit and dirt being sucked down his throat into his lungs as he struggled to attain his last precious gasps of oxygen. He realized that he was starting to hyperventilate, his breath coming faster and faster as if it was really happening.

And then Luce's mouth was on his, lighter than their usual, slow open-mouthed kisses where Luce would break away every couple seconds to make sure Conrad's breathing was not getting worse. It worked. Conrad focused on Luce's mouth instead of the feeling of dirt scraping against his tongue, that imaginary sensation replaced by the very real sensation of Luce's tongue finally choosing to invade. Luce's arm was wrapped around him, but even as they kissed Luce's free hand slid under the hem of Conrad's shirt, fingers trailing over the soft flesh of his stomach and up across his chest. He gasped into Luce's mouth when the man tweaked his left nipple with two fingers.

At that point it was easy for Luce to lower him to the ground, Conrad bending where he was bid and dropping down without once breaking contact. Some part of his mind still knew that he was stretching out on a grave, and the grass that had grown over the plot was nothing like a bed or a couch or anywhere else he and Luce had fucked in the past. But for that moment Conrad could ignore the implication, could wrap his arms around Luce's neck and hold on, aware of Luce's long fingers moving at his belt.

Conrad blinked open his eyes, blearily, needing the reassurance of seeing Luce crouched over him. He hadn't even noticed when he'd shut them in the first place. For a second all he could see were Luce's eyes, filling his field of vision, but as his gaze focused he could see a faint silvery light from over Luce's shoulder. Startled, he bit down on Luce's tongue, thinking it was someone taking care of the church who had heard them, who would kick them out, call the police. Luce only hummed at what should have been pain, drawing his tongue back from between Conrad's teeth with exaggerated care.

Conrad remembered, belatedly, that Luce would like that.

Luce leaned away, but still Conrad couldn't quite focus, seeing as Luce's hand had managed to wrap around his cock with that familiar firm grip.

"That... Light!" Conrad gasped, trying to follow the will-o-the-wisp with his eyes as it moved closer. It was difficult with Luce stroking him like that, slow but painfully persistent.

"Wot?" Luce asked, so that Conrad thought he registered a hint of real confusion.

"Luce," Conrad whined. "Someone's... Please! ...I think someone's coming."

"Wot are yeh talkin' abou'?" Luce asked, going from faintly confused to just disbelieving. "'S dark as pitch, Connie, no one's here."

Conrad blinked back at Luce, dumbly, silenced by the distraction of Luce's hand coupled with the fact that Luce was clearly wrong. Was Luce just messing with him? Was this part of Luce's game, of the festivities for that night – was it maybe Lamont approaching and this was some sort of surprise for him?

If it was, Conrad didn't like it very well. The graveyard was unsettling enough to him, he really just wanted Luce to make him feel better and right then Lamont's presence would only make it worse. Luce seemed to think the matter was settled, because his hand was moving faster, insistent, and then his other hand started tugging Conrad's pants lower.

Conrad could still see the light. Luce's way with him was familiar enough that it was no longer a distraction, and instead he was focusing on the fact that he could now see a slender hand wrapped around an old-time lantern, the flame inside flickering but bright. It was followed by the rest of a figure, like the person was stepping out from behind a curtain, their form solidifying within Conrad's gaze. Solidifying wasn't quite the right word, though, because as Conrad watched the girl's nightgown flutter, he realized that he could see right through it, could read the inscription of the tombstone behind her with the aide of her unearthly light.

The girl came up right behind Luce, peering over his shoulder and down at Conrad. She looked no older than twelve, but if the motion of Luce's hand or the glimpse of Conrad's cock meant anything to her, it was not evident upon her face. Her features only registered polite interest, as if she was waiting for a pause in the festivities after which she might speak. Even without processing anything further than /someone watching,/ Conrad began to deflate, softening a bit in Luce's hand.

Luce's response was to grip him harder and go faster, as if personally offended that his techniques could fail. He varied the motion of his hand, twisting on the upstroke and grazing his thumb across the head, teasingly.

"Luce," Conrad tried again, lowering his volume to a whisper.

Her gaze was still on him, steady and unwavering, and that was unnerving him almost more than the fact that she was a ghost, he knew she was a ghost.

"Yer not still on abou' tha' are yeh?" Luce asked, more irritated this time. "Connie, 's fine. Calm down pup, yeh know Aye ain't gunna let anythin' happen 'ere."

For Luce, that was a lot, such a concession to Conrad's troubled state of mind. Conrad could not appreciate it. He was trembling, just slightly, not meeting Luce's eyes because his gaze was locked with that of the ghost girl. He raised one hand from where it had tangled in the grass, pointing behind Luce, bidding him look without words. Conrad couldn't say it, couldn't try and explain. He just needed Luce to understand, as if Luce could banish their specter of a spectator and make everything okay once again.

Even more of a concession, Luce complied, jerking his head around impatiently. For a few long seconds he remained that way, poised over Conrad but looking behind himself. And then he turned back, expression perplexed. His hand had ceased fully then, but his stilled grip was tighter than even before, and that was how Conrad knew that Luce was not at all pleased.

"Connie, d'yeh think tha's funny?" Luce asked flatly.

Conrad shook his head back and forth, but was unable to do any more, because the girl had smiled at him, and placed one slender finger to her lips.

"Fuck," Luce muttered then, shifting over Conrad, calling Conrad's attention to the bulge in the front of the older man's jeans.

Conrad felt guilty then; even if he was having trouble focusing with the girl there, Luce couldn't see her and Luce clearly still wanted to do this. It would be the least he could do, just to do his best to focus on Luce and not... Not ruin this for the man, when Luce had worked so carefully to arrange everything.

Conrad raised one hand blindly, groping for the front of Luce's pants even as he was unable to rip his gaze away from the ghost girl. Luce gave a slight hiss when Conrad's hand fumbled against him, before growing impatient with Conrad's uncoordinated fumbling and opening his fly himself. Conrad's hand was still there, and as soon as Luce pulled himself out of his jeans, Conrad's fingers curled falteringly around Luce's length.

"Fuck, Connie," Luce muttered, so that it was part of a hissing intake of breath.

Encouraged, Conrad stroked quickly twice before he was derailed by the tittering of the girl's laughter. He jerked his hand away from Luce as if burned, and Luce offered him a frustrated growl for his troubles.

After that Luce went after Conrad's pants in their entirety, tugging down on them until they cleared Conrad's ass, sunk past his knees, and finally bunched together around his ankles where his shoes prevented them from going further. Luce nudged Conrad's legs apart as far as they would go, his knees drawing up defensively in the face of this abrupt treatment. Luce merely hovered in between Conrad's knees, one hand initiating a death grip around his dick, stroking slowly every so often but mostly squeezing tightly enough to make Conrad cringe, when he looked towards Luce's crotch.

"Yeh'll be plenty distracted once we start goin'," Luce told him, confidently.

Conrad would have liked it if Luce was right.

The ghost girl had drifted over beside Conrad, kneeling on the ground to his right. Or rather, it looked as if she was kneeling, but if Conrad rolled his head to the side and looked more carefully, he could tell that she was still floating an inch above the grass. She smiled at Conrad again, and set her lantern down on what should have been the ground, but was only air.

"You're a funny one," Conrad heard, and it took him a moment to realize that the girl was actually talking to him.

She was talking to him, and Luce had a slicked finger pressed inside of him, and Conrad just couldn't tell which issue was more pressing at that moment. He squirmed beneath Luce's careful invasion, and the girl laughed at him yet again.

"I think someone might have done that to me, once," the girl murmured, just thoughtfully, like it was an ordinary comment.

If Conrad hadn't been having difficulty with the way his attention was being divided already, that would have killed things in a heartbeat. As it was, he stiffened in place, even as Luce's finger crooked inside of him. He knew he himself was young, some people might say too young, that all of these things he did with Luce were not what he wanted. But hearing that childish, ethereal voice – never mind how the ghost looked, her dress girlishly old-fashioned – casually commenting on Luce /invading/ him so carefully? It made Conrad's stomach turn over heavily, a cold shiver traveling up the length of his spine.

"Luce," Conrad said, this time his voice tight and scared enough to capture even Luce's interest back.

If Conrad hadn't been so unsettled, he might have made more of the fact that Luce only became more persistent when he resisted the man's ministrations. Conrad was too reliant on that touch, found it too easy those days to lean into Luce's hand the moment it was outstretched. He should have marveled at being able to make Luce work, to see Luce trying to undo /him,/ instead of Conrad struggling to even affect Luce, just a little.

"/Luce,/" Conrad said again, more forcefully, swearing he could feel the girl's fingers against his arm like ice. He swallowed tightly, trying to keep his gaze on Luce even as it would skitter to the side, checking to make sure the girl was still there.

And then a pulse of anger, at her, for trying to compare herself to Conrad. He had quite enough of that already. Everyone at school, they could never say a damned nice thing, all those comparisons where Conrad would come out the loser time and time again. He didn't want his potential failures juxtaposed with what he had with Luce, not that strongly, not when the implication seemed to be that he could be dead and cold so easily. He shook his head lightly, the motion directed at the girl. He didn't care what had happened to her. He turned his gaze back to Luce, fully.

"I thought you said you were going to distract me," Conrad murmured, voice low but heated, combating the chill of the ghost girl clinging to his arm. "H-Hurry up. It's okay. M... M-Make it hurt."

It was hard to say it. Right then he even wanted it, it wasn't because Conrad thought Luce would approve of this. And because he was so aware of just what he was asking for, he managed to catch the appraising look that briefly flickered to life in Luce's eyes. Acceptance came too quickly after, and Conrad scooted his body closer to Luce, legs already drawn up in further invitation.

Luce's hand pulled away from him, and Conrad just focused on his face. Ignored the girl. Ignored the feel of the grass beneath him, the open sky above with stars obscured by light pollution and cloud cover. Ignored, or tried so hard to, all the lurking fears that tried so hard to protect him. And then it was fast, as fast as he could have hoped for, Luce's cock nudged up against him and shoving in. It did hurt, and he wasn't quite ready, but he only clamped his legs tight around Luce's torso and held on.

Take him for a ride. Wasn't that the point? Toss him out of his comfort zone and ride him hard enough to leave him breathless.

"I don't think that ever happened to me," the ghost-girl whispered, from just above Conrad.

He ignored her.

Luce went hard right from the start, but it felt almost like a test. Like Luce was saying that Conrad should really consider what he was asking for, because he was going to get it. Okay, okay, he could deal with it. Just so long as Luce took him away from that voice. Conrad reached for Luce, catching onto the sleeves of Luce's shirt, reaching up higher to wrap his hands around Luce's shoulders. He held himself up from the ground, poised in the air between Luce and the grass.

Luce continued to thrust into him, steadily, an even rhythm that left no room for mistake, and Conrad marveled at the fact that it no longer hurt. It was kind of like flying, with Luce his only point of contact. Save for his tailbone braced against the ground, Luce really was the only thing he was touching.

Luce and the girl. She was wrapping her fingers around his neck from behind him, the chill again invading.

"No, this isn't quite what happened to me," she murmured, sounding distracted.

"Luce," Conrad moaned out again, the only thing he could think, somewhere between fear and need.

"Ah," the girl murmured, as Conrad watched Luce's expression shift, pleasure morphing into something almost more on the man's face. "I remember. He shoved in higher."

If Conrad realized what she meant, he paid no heed. Luce's hand was on him again, as sure as ever, tight grasp and firm strokes.

"Please," Conrad whispered, brokenly.

And when Conrad finally managed to come, Luce's hand or Luce's cock, he didn't know any more, all of the disturbing things he'd heard simply whited out. He wasn't sure when Luce finished. Luce kept going, that Conrad knew, all of the sensations continuing, overwhelming, even as his body insisted it was quite finished. But he'd asked for it to hurt, so even when the pain rolled back in and he was no longer basked in light and steady pleasure, he held on. It was only fair, after all.

Conrad knew when things were well and truly over, though, because Luce settled him back into the grass, dislodging Conrad's hands from where they'd clawed into the flesh of Luce's shoulders. Conrad let go sheepishly, disentangling himself from the older male. He was embarrassed then, unable to fully think over everything that had gone wrong during their encounter. Oh god. He needed to get out of there.

"I, uh, still need to get home," Conrad muttered, ducking his head even as he looked up at Luce, a compromise to the part of him that was insisting he turn away.

Clearly he had lucked out, because after only brief scrutiny, Luce rose to his knees and stood up, dragging Conrad up with him. Luce began to lead him back out of the graveyard, and Conrad could feel his spirits slowly rising, his heart emerging from the pit of his stomach. Almost over, it was almost over.

Just once, Conrad glanced behind him. The ghost girl was standing next to a tombstone with an angel perched atop it, the sculpture only then illuminated by the girl's unearthly glow. She offered Conrad a coy little wave, lifting her lantern in her other hand.

"Next time, don't let him do that to you on my grave," she whispered, but Conrad heard her perfectly. "I hate remembering. It's so messy."

And when she went to brush imagined soil off of the hem of her dress, Conrad could have sworn that it was his come that went spattering free. He turned away again in a hurry, grabbing onto Luce's arm harder and speeding his steps. His action was met by Luce's loud laughter.

"Yer such a fuckin' fag Connie," Luce told him cheerfully, pulling Conrad over the rotting fence.

Conrad chose, that once, to ignore it. Not to feel hurt, or irritated, or really anything except relief, the emotion bubbling up in him as soon as he was safely inside Luce's car and they were whizzing past streetlights on the way home, those lights completely earthly and reassuring as his own steady heartbeat.


	8. Worlds to Meet

AN: This piece is definitely a little skeevy, but probably not skeevier than the overall premise for the fic. It takes place not too long after the fourth chapter, which is interesting after the last chapter, which was meant as fairly far along in the timeline, at a point when Conrad was fairly comfortable with Luce's dysfunctions. Oh, little Conrad. You think about the weirdest things while you masturbate. The comic Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone; I am making no profit and mean no trespass.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.008. - "Family" - .Worlds to Meet.

.

The door was locked even though Conrad's mother was out. Conrad had preferred to masturbate in his bathroom, but ever since... Ever since the cleansing ritual, he couldn't do that any longer. Instead he'd rumpled up the sheets on his usually pristinely-made bed, turned the lock on the door, and slipped out of his pants. Luce probably only would have them halfway off at this point, or if he'd gotten Conrad out of them already, would not be taking this much time about things. But this was Conrad's fantasy. He could say things went however he liked.

Conrad stretched out on his back, knees drawing up automatically, and reached for the small bottle of lubricant that was beside him on the mattress. He'd kind of taken that from Luce, because he knew he'd never be able to buy his own, not even out of the drug store where it could be maybe borderline acceptable. He knew Luce had at least three different bottles, surely Luce wouldn't miss just one? Luce probably knew it was gone and was laughing it up over Conrad stealing it. Oh well; oh well. Conrad could make himself forget about that. The low sweet smell of the lube when he popped open the bottle only added to the fantasy.

Conrad squeezed the gel slowly into his palm, just a little. Just enough to make the experience feel genuine. He didn't dare try and press even one slippery finger inside himself, could not surmount the mental block barring his way. He'd tried, just once, had bitten his lip and scrunched his eyes shut and /tried./ But it just... It couldn't live up to Luce doing the same exact thing with much more surety. Conrad would have to turn to other ends, would hope he could continue to circumvent the feeling that now Luce did this all better than him, that one day he would touch himself and it just wouldn't work, that the only avenue left would be Luce.

When the gel had warmed in his hand, Conrad slid his fingers together, wrapped them around himself and took a firm grip. Just like Luce, the same tight hold like he meant business. Conrad closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering just once, needing to cut off the view that showed him without a doubt that he was alone. With his eyes shut, he could act as if Luce was there in the room, could imagine Luce whispering to him filthy instructions even if he could not quite convince himself that the hand was Luce's own. He stroked up, flicked his wrist, squeezed tighter. He'd barely ever done this before Luce, and then only furtively, hiding from his mother in the house that was more hers than ever his.

Conrad should not have thought about it just then. But the one flickering thought, brought out in anger that he had to hide in the place that should have been home – he tried not to think it, but Luce's apartment almost felt more like home, or at least more welcoming – unlocked all the others. Oh, Conrad knew where his mother was then, but she should not pretend it was for him. She did not work her high-stress, high-stakes job for him, even if her income went towards their home, his food, things for his education and betterment. There were so many things she could have been besides an event planner, so many vocations that were less high-profile in those plasticine-fake society circles.

It was dressing a dog in a tutu and calling it a ballerina.

Conrad did not stop stroking, only slid his hand faster, the lubricant making things all the more obscene. He thought about being angry, thought about hating her. It was a far different flavor of emotion from what Luce brought out in him, but in a way it was good, made the flames fan higher. Maybe, this time, maybe he would make it, would be able to come without struggling and wanting Luce so that it hurt.

He knew on some level that maybe he wanted Luce because of some dearth here, because it was clear that there were things he just wasn't getting at home. He wouldn't analyze himself. He was currently breathing hard, panting, squeezing his eyes shut tighter so that he wouldn't look. It wasn't like Luce made him feel loved; he told himself that he knew better. What Luce got from him was some other creature altogether. Conrad did not pretend to understand. He wondered, sometimes, why Luce continued to parade him out, continued to spirit him away to that safe haven that was the apartment, where nothing could hurt him unless Luce let it.

Luce let it, sometimes, but miraculously Conrad only leaned into it, gasped out louder. He didn't understand it himself.

Conrad had thought it once, in passion, and maybe this was more of the same and he just couldn't trust himself any more. But he wanted family. He wanted people he could trust, could rely on. He hated sports and he still wished at times that he'd had a father to throw a ball around with. Wished he could at least lay claim to that experience, could pretend at some level of normalcy because at times he felt like such a magnificently foreign creature that no one could pretend understanding of him, not ever. He wanted family dinners, and holidays together, and the option to worry over which parent to ask about some tribulation because there was actually a choice and it wasn't just one massive dead end.

And the thought, the thing that Conrad knew was wrong, and he shouldn't think, but couldn't help. The thought that Luce was that family, so much more than his own mother. Luce was the person he wanted to tell things to, even when he knew Luce wouldn't listen, like you knew sometimes your parents just tuned you out but you talked anyway. Conrad imagined that it made everything even more messed up, imagined it even as his hips arched off the bed into the tight ring of his hand. He already knew Luce was older; he didn't want to imagine he was sleeping with his surrogate father.

But, well, Lamont could maybe be the father. Lamont would listen to some of the things Luce wouldn't, and sometimes Lamont had real valuable advice, like the kind an older man would give, when he was invested in the recipient. And maybe that made it even more fucked up, with the things they would all do together. But Conrad wouldn't give either of the men up for the world. They were the anchors, the hands that turned him on his axis. He imagined that they would shape the adult he became far more than the woman who had given him life could, not any more.

Conrad grasped at it with both hands, in his mind's eye, even as his one hand clenched tighter around his length because that was the edge. Fuck, no matter what he did, he couldn't come without thinking about Luce. He'd delve into all the pits of his mind and spread out the thoughts that felt like pitch, like contaminants, and still that tight longing was there. Luce was everything, and he wanted to hate it, even as he bit his lip and came over his curled fingers, over the bared expanse of his stomach.

He couldn't hate Luce, though, not any more than a child could truly loathe the parents turning their chin to the sky when they were feeling stubborn. What Conrad really hated was the fact that he could not bridge the gap. He had his mother, his legal guardian, the one person society would say was responsible for him and honor-bound to love him and do what was best for him. And he had Luce, the man who made him feel like he had more of a purpose than to be kicked around by jocks and just plain kicked down by the rest of the world.

And he could never introduce Luce to his mother, could never cause those two worlds to meet. His mother would never accept a man so many years older than Conrad himself, no matter what he said or how he pleaded or what desperation he could lay at her feet. He likely couldn't instill in Luce the patience for such a woman, anyway, couldn't get more out of the med student than a few terse words, a cutting remark to the woman who only wished to be a guest to one of her own parties. It was illegal and wrong and it hurt, even as he wiped up his stomach and threw his leavings away.

He'd never imagined how much he would give for just one family dinner, with his /whole/ family, each disparate person who he could not rationalize loving to anyone but himself. Even to himself, he'd rather pretend otherwise.


	9. Flick of the Wrist

AN: It feels like such a long time since I've written a piece of this. Have more kink, or at least sort of kink, considering which prompt this is. This one made me think a bit about how teen Conrad doesn't really have Conrad's characteristic anger yet. Even when Luce does things that are downright mean, he's more likely to get defensive and insecure, rather than defensive and then angry. This piece is clearly set after the first time they have full-out anal sex, but still before Conrad is all that comfortable with Luce's masochism. Hanna is Not a Boy's Name is still the property of the marvelous Tessa Stone, and I am still making no money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

.

.009. - "Whip" - .FLICK OF THE WRIST.

.

Luce never told Conrad not to touch his things. Luce always relied on Conrad's skittishness with his mess, the way Conrad would turn up his nose at the filth of Luce's living space without ever dipping a hand into the detritus to see what might be hidden. It wasn't exactly that Conrad grew more comfortable with the dirt and the clutter and the veritable mass of microorganisms that had to be swarming over everything. It was that, for all of Luce's flippant stories and non-sequiturs and little tidbits that Conrad gathered like precious gems in shards of glass, Conrad needed more.

Conrad was desperate to learn just a little more about the man who had touched the hidden parts of himself that even he might not have thought to probe.

It wasn't snooping. Luce was in the kitchenette, probably pouring himself a drink, and Conrad knew now to turn down any offers for him to join in. Luce probably also thought that Conrad ducking into the bedroom was just Conrad being agreeable. It meant he had just a few minutes. He went for Luce's dresser first, under the assumption that the cleanest clothes would be in there, and there wouldn't be anything too soiled or cringe-inducing. He peeled layers of clothing aside with two fingers, horrified at the way articles clung together, like static attraction – or like some sort of scum was gluing them in place.

Underneath the worn, sticky shirts and underthings in the top drawer, Conrad dislodged a smooth object that appeared to be the handle to something. Compared to everything else, it looked clean. It was probably wood, darkly lacquered and wrapped tightly with a thin strip of what looked like leather, forming a grip that was soft to the touch but would surely give good purchase. It was only when he pulled it free from the linens to reveal the neatly coiled tail end of the whip that Conrad realized what he was touching.

The whip was quite possibly the cleanest thing in the entire room, which said something to Conrad about its importance to Luce. The only thing cleaner was likely the bottle of lube Luce would produce with his signature leer after neatly pinning Conrad. His fingers were unwinding the braided leather, rather enjoying the tactile feel of it sliding between his fingertips. It didn't even seem odd that Luce would have such a thing. It was odder that it was stowed away beneath underthings. Luce was not the sort to deliberately hide his toys.

"An' Aye thought yeh were th' privacy-mindin' sort," Luce murmured, voice pitched low, so that Conrad realized the man had come up just behind him. "Yeh like wot yeh've found?"

Conrad jumped slightly, and his fingers tightened around the handle. He'd been caught digging around in Luce's things and he knew he should feel embarrassed, should perhaps say something to defend himself. Luce's fingers closed around his wrist, but loosely, his hand moving to cover Conrad's.

"Yeh think yeh could use this?" Luce crooned. "Makes a delicious crack, if yeh know how ter swing it right."

Conrad swallowed convulsively, not knowing why his throat suddenly felt tight, or why the inside of his mouth felt dry. He didn't want to try and use a whip on Luce. He knew it was the sort of thing the man would like, and he was able to bite and scratch and cause a little bit of pain, but this actually felt dangerous. The weight of the implement in his hand felt great in comparison to those small wounds he had caused previously. Didn't whips usually leave great red welts when they were used on people? No matter how pleased Luce would be, Conrad couldn't watch the skin of Luce's back split and swell. Anywhere else would be even worse.

"I-I can't," Conrad finally stuttered, when the only change had been Luce's fingers rubbing against the soft skin of his wrist.

"Yeh cain't?" Luce echoed. "Or yeh won't?"

"E-Either!" Conrad exclaimed, gasping the word out despite his faltering. Something about the way Luce asked felt more dangerous than the whip, and Conrad needed to get away from that feeling.

"'S not so hard, kiddo," Luce said, in that croon again. "Ah'll show yeh, yeh woan' even 'ave ter do it t' me."

Conrad tilted his head around, looked up at Luce then. The older man's expression was calm and even, a steady thing that almost made Conrad feel better. He let Luce turn him around, let Luce adjust his grip on the handle of the whip so that the tail draped down in front of both of them. Luce edged backwards out of the way, his hands on Conrad's arm to guide the motion.

"Jes' swing it once, like this," Luce directed, moving Conrad slowly through the motion before dropping his hands away.

"I can't," Conrad said again, more sure than before, but also speaking more pathetically.

"Jes' do it," Luce intoned. "'S easier than it looks."

There was still the feeling of danger, of things that Conrad did not want to get into. But Luce wasn't asking Conrad to strike at him, only to give the whip a practice crack in the empty air of the bedroom. Luce's manner was surprisingly accommodating, stepping neatly out of the way so Conrad need not fear hitting him on accident, out of ineptitude. His ability to deny Luce died, not when he could please the man so easily, even if the weight of the whip was so awkward in his hands.

Conrad drew his arm back, did his best to make the same motion Luce had walked him though. But his manner was too slow. Instead of the neat crack Conrad knew Luce was expecting, the leather of the whip flopped limply through the air, the arc of its passage aborting midway through. Conrad's arm remained extended, his gaze dropping to the floor where the end of the whip was dragging, heat suddenly rising in his cheeks for reasons he didn't fully understand. He'd told Luce he couldn't do it. Why was he so surprised only to prove himself right?

Conrad felt Luce move close again, the man's body pressing near when Luce reached his arm around to again secure Conrad's wrist. He wasn't as gentle as before, taking Conrad's hand firmly and removing the whip from his grasp. The motion was almost possessive, and Conrad wasn't sure if the feeling was towards this implement that Luce kept in such fine condition, or perhaps towards himself.

"Yeh know yer lettin' me down, doan'cha kiddo?" Luce asked, voice pitched low and with a bit of an edge.

Conrad could only feel the burning feeling stronger. He already knew that he'd failed, that this was something important to Luce that he just couldn't summon the will to do. He didn't really need Luce to go and rub it in his face afterward. Luce turned him around, keeping their bodies pressed close, pressing Conrad in turn back against the front of Luce's dresser. The whip was neatly held off to one side, dangling from Luce's hand like it belonged there.

"Yer gunna make it up t' me, aren't'cha?" Luce asked, croon going even lower.

"W-What do you want me to d-do?" Conrad stumbled, remembering at the last moment to look up and meet Luce's gaze.

Luce brought the whip forward again, holding the tail against the handle and prodding Conrad in the stomach with the place where the two parts joined. Conrad could feel it pressed against him, the implement a hardness that nudged insistently against his flesh, an easy metaphor for parts of Luce's anatomy that weren't even involved with their situation.

"Yer jes' gunna 'old still," Luce told him, still in that low, dangerous tone of voice.

Considering that he was already trying to freeze up, like a deer in headlights, Conrad didn't think that was going to be a problem.

The handle of the whip pressed in a bit lower, and then Luce's long fingers were neatly unbuttoning Conrad's fly. The motion was smooth and deliberate – efficient. Not like Luce was really thinking about what he was doing, not like sometimes, but with a calm speed that meant Luce knew exactly what was going to happen next. When his pants were open, Luce neatly shoved them down, a firm yank that brought them to Conrad's knees. He was holding still, like Luce had said, and Luce simply stepped on the fabric of Conrad's pants to bring them lower instead of giving him any sort of instruction. Luce's knee between his legs nudged Conrad's feet apart wider.

Conrad could feel the butterflies in his stomach start to flutter, the way they always did when Luce started these things, took actions that could only end in one way. He couldn't even ask Luce to please not get dirt all over his jeans, not when Luce was running the whip's end over his bare skin down along his hipbone. He saw when Luce reached into his back pocket and pulled out the tiny bottle of lube, saw it because he was expecting it. Conrad must not have screwed up too enormously, because Luce still wanted to sleep with him.

Luce was still holding the lube where Conrad could see it, even as the path of the whip handle curved along the inside of Conrad's thigh, moving up along the lightly quivering flesh with the same persistent pressure. Normally by this point Luce would have gone for his own pants, for his cock, might even have given the barest touch to Conrad. Instead there was the press of the whip handle, just behind his balls, and then the audible click as Luce flipped the cap of the lube open.

It was at that point that Conrad realized Luce wasn't just going to fuck him.

"Doan' move," Luce reminded him, when Conrad started to instinctively shrink away from the touch of the wood.

Just then, Conrad could feel the leather of the whip brush against his bare skin.

Conrad did his level best to hold still. He held still while Luce was coating the handle of the whip with lube, held up by Conrad's nose so he could see clearly. He held still when the implement again dropped out of his view. He held still when Luce pressed the cool, slick, curved end of the handle up against his entrance, even when he realized that Luce hadn't actually touched him. His back was still against the dresser, pressing so hard that he could feel one of the knobs digging in just to the right of his spine.

When Luce started to press in, the motion was gradual but insistent, waiting for Conrad's body to give a little but also showing no signs of drawing back. Conrad could feel when the bulb shape at the bottom of the handle slipped in, could feel each coil of the leather around the handle rubbing against his insides when Luce kept pushing. He started to rise onto his toes, started to inch away from the stimulation in spite of the very clear order Luce had given him. Luce didn't reprimand him, only pressed further.

Past a point, Conrad couldn't even retreat any farther, and Luce gave his wrist an abrupt twist that wrung a high gasp right out of Conrad's throat. Conrad wasn't used to something inside of him that was if anything less relenting than Luce's cock, something that Luce could twist inside him and send everything shivering. At least when it was Luce's cock Conrad could imagine that the man was feeling something like he was, some measure of loss of control even if Luce seemed remarkably comfortable even then. This alternate penetration meant that Luce could scrutinize him easily, could ratchet him up with sensations until he almost wanted to sob with the feelings.

"Careful now," Luce cautioned, eyes half-lidded and gaze predatory. "Now tha' yer up on yer toes, yer gunna 'ave t' stay there."

Conrad hadn't realized until that moment that the pose was putting some awful strain on the muscles in the back of his legs, but as soon as Luce called attention to what he was doing he could feel it beginning to ache. Luce was just then turning the handle, drawing it out millimeter by millimeter before shoving it abruptly back in. Conrad gave another little cry, one of his legs nearly giving when he tried to inch up even higher.

Luce watched him. The entire time the man was sliding the device in and out, teasing him with a surface that felt nothing like Luce's hot, perceptibly throbbing cock inside of him, the entire time Luce's eyes were cataloguing every little shift. Conrad's hands had reached back to grip at the top of the dresser, his fingers seizing tight against the wood so that his knuckles were surely showing white. Even then the slide of the handle was ceaselessly pressing in and out, the shove back in coming abruptly at random times, at times in line with Luce's capricious will.

"Not so difficult," Luce murmured. "'S really not so difficult t' jes' crack a whip once or twice, jes' one careless flick of th' wrist. Cain'tcha see why Ah'm disappointed?"

All Conrad really saw was the back of his eyelids when his eyes tried to roll up inside his head, as Luce's words had been accompanied by his own wrist flicking, abruptly rotating and sending the leather rubbing deep inside of him. Luce slid his hand back again, and for a moment he waited.

"But 's all okay," Luce crooned, the opportunity at last.

Conrad started to lean forward, immediately wanting Luce to tell him that it was okay, wanting Luce to explain whatever it was he had wanted all along. Tricking him was something Luce enjoyed too much, and perhaps the man had had something different in mind all along.

"Yer gunna come fer me, an' then yer really gunna see what it takes t' make a whip crack."

Conrad gasped in again, that time in distress instead of pleasure. Luce was being ruthless in his ministrations, using abrupt motions when Conrad least expected it and persisting even when it was almost too much. He still hadn't actually touched Conrad, not with his hands. Conrad should have realized that Luce wasn't exactly getting off here. He was enjoying himself, that much was clear, but in a way he was holding himself back. He was going to force Conrad to take his pleasure, and even when that was through it wouldn't be over.

"D'yeh wan' me t' touch yeh?" Luce asked, low voice suddenly going gentle. Thoughtful, almost.

Conrad slowly focused his eyes, looked Luce right in the face and tried to understand. He couldn't string two words together. His cock was hard just as Luce wanted it, and the unfamiliar sensations were making it exceedingly hard for him to think.

"'M not gunna do somethin' yeh doan' wan'," Luce told him, serious tone melting into more of a purr.

Conrad blinked, stomach clenching, his cock jumping slightly at the implication. He started to cant his body forward, unwittingly letting himself push down more firmly against the violation of the handle Luce still had a firm hold on. Luce's head shook, just the most minute of movements to one side and back. Conrad only caught it because on some level, he knew denial was coming.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Luce gave a most deliberate shrug, before beginning to ratchet up the speed of his hand working the whip into Conrad's body. It was the point of overload, almost worse than that very first time because just then, he knew Luce was trying to tip something. Luce wanted to win, and at that moment Conrad thought he'd do whatever it was Luce wanted. He whined, low in the back of his throat, not having the words to get it across.

"Try jes' a lil' bit harder," Luce suggested, without pity.

"Please," Conrad whispered, finally, having to screw up his face and try to ignore everything just to force the single word out.

"All yeh 'ad t' do was ask," Luce said, his other hand curling lightly around Conrad's cock.

Luce's touch was barely there, almost gentle, like he knew full well that too much would probably send Conrad right out of his head. The motion of the handle smoothed out, no more of the quick thrusts used to surprise Conrad but instead an even persistence, Luce turning the handle very slowly every time he slid it back in.

Conrad knew Luce had told him not to move. Even with everything else tumbling completely out of his head, that one dictation remained, taunting him. His legs were tired of standing up, and even his arms were trembling gently. Slowly, like he was waiting for Luce to reprimand him and stop it, he brought his hands up to catch onto the sleeves of Luce's shirt. He fisted them in the material, pressing his balled fists into Luce's upper arms and holding on for all he was worth. He would have gone ahead and buried his face in Luce's chest, too, but he knew that much would earn more of Luce's displeasure.

Conrad focused on Luce's face, at the end, the feeling pooling in his gut building even higher with every minute shift in Luce's expression. It always felt like Luce knew the moment before he did, could divine exactly when Conrad was going to come. That time he yanked down on Luce's sleeves first, just needing to stay upright as Luce's hand persisted inexorably until he was spent. Conrad tottered forward then, coming down from his toes and tumbling against Luce's chest. Luce was kind enough to let him rest there, but Conrad still knew, somewhere buried in his head, that this wasn't quite it.

"'M sorry," he mumbled into Luce's shirt.

"An' why's tha'?" Luce asked, so slowly that Conrad knew it wasn't patience but a ruthless sort of deliberation.

"I didn't want to do it," Conrad muttered, still speaking far too freely.

He should have known better than to admit to Luce that he hadn't even /tried./ But he was tired and still trembling slightly, always played so easily by all of Luce's tricks.

Luce yanked down, and Conrad jumped against him when he felt the tool slip completely free. He was too sated to worry about what Luce was going to do then. But all he heard was the muffled thud of Luce setting the whip down on the dresser behind Conrad. Luce didn't even force him to stop clinging, He was already trying to shift closer, his body knowing better than his head that this only lasted so long, and that he should snuggle close while he had the opportunity.

"Clearly Aye jes' 'ave t' give yeh a lil' motivation," Luce murmured. Like he didn't want to shatter the moment.

The words did it anyway. Conrad tilted his face up, the confusion evident on his features. Luce only chuckled quietly, surely enjoying his moment of doubt and worry.

"Doan' artists need strong wrists?" Luce asked.

Conrad knew it was rhetorical, because Luce took that moment to dislodge him, at least making sure he was steady on his feet before letting go entirely. Luce started to turn away, sliding smoothly into a more businesslike mode. The tell was that he was still smirking, clearly holding something back.

"Draw me somethin', an' we'll see if yeh kin handle makin' a whip crack."


End file.
